


Ficlet: Heels

by jawnwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Shoooooes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawnwatson/pseuds/jawnwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John is stroppy, until he isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ficlet: Heels

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this, except that it's 4:41 AM and I should really be asleep. I have to admit, this is my first time writing anything like this. I blame the sherlock-in-heels tumblr, wholeheartedly. Ridiculously short, but amusing (hopefully.) Enjoy!

It's raining terribly, and John Watson is in an appropriately rotten mood. He's working himself into a right strop, if we're being honest, striding down the sidewalk towards the flat, milk tucked under one arm and righteous indignation held loftily in the other hand. Honestly, he's getting quite petulant.

"Damn Sherlock - bugger the bloody milk - sodding rain - "

It's not helping his growing rage that every step comes equipped with a nice, dramatic squelching noise and isn't that just lovely? It's fucking fantastic, is what it is. 

While it can be argued that John could just stop doing whatever Sherlock asks of him, we all know that's not happening anytime soon and let's be honest, John needs a reason to get just a wee bit belligerent sometimes. 

//

When John finally, finally, gets to Baker Street, not only is he sopping wet, he's managed to work himself into such a rage that you can practically see the smoke blasting from his ears. 

As such anger warrants, the tiny tyrant stomps up the stairs, slams open the door to the flat he shares with his not-so-sweet sweetie, turns, slams it shut again, turns once more, and promptly stops. He may have dropped the milk. Maybe. 

For spread on the couch, wearing nothing but a pair of shiny, silky black heels, is his very own gargantuan sweetheart; his lissome love; his damn brilliant boyfriend. 

John is a little worried he may be having a heart attack. Maybe not. So Sherlock just stayed quiet and let his little love figure that out, work his jaw open and closed for about ten-point-five-seconds, before running a pale, graceful hand up one bare thigh.

"Welcome home, John."


End file.
